


all this and love too will ruin us

by the_ocean_weekender



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angry Jaskier | Dandelion, Angst, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Romance, Self-Esteem Issues, bisexual disaster trio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:40:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23497663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ocean_weekender/pseuds/the_ocean_weekender
Summary: for the kink meme prompt:There are... a lot of dark moments in Geralt's life, and he doesn't think that that is set to change moving forward. He has enough regrets to last him several lifetimes, so very many questions that will likely never be adequately answered. So when Yenn curses him to relive the worst moment of his life over and over, as punishment for fucking with her emotions via the djinn... he has no idea what to expect.Telling Jaskier that his life would be so much better without him in it is... unexpected, to say the least. But as the scene keeps repeating and he really takes the time to listen to the words the bard says and look at the desolation on the bard's face... he starts to understand.BONUS+ True Love's Kiss breaks the spell angst, with Jaskier not realizing that Geralt/Yennefer is definitely *not* a thing anymore
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 43
Kudos: 511
Collections: The Witcher Alternate Universes, Witcher Kink Meme (Dreamwidth)





	1. The Mountain

**Author's Note:**

> title from richard siken  
> also!! we are not bashing yennefer or any female character in this house!!

He watches Jaskier’s back as he retreats down the mountain and then he finally turns away. It feels like a death, or at least as if he’s mourning someone but witchers don’t have feelings so that can’t be right. Geralt decides to stop thinking about it- as much as that can be called a conscious decision and not an instinct. Pondering that would be thinking about it, so he turns away and focuses on getting down the mountain; doesn’t think about anything other than Roach and his next meal and riding away with the mountain at his back as the day grows long and the sun turns blue.

And then magic stirs in the air.

Yennefer, he knows. _A curse_. Even if he tries something or if he realised what she was doing quicker it would have done no good: there’s no escaping magic. There’s no escaping _Yennefer_.

It’s an old curse, he knows by the taste on his tongue, like dandelions, though it’s not a common curse and he can’t immediately recall its name. _What does it_ do _?_ He’s not sure. It’s going to hurt, that’s for sure. Fuck.

Unlike just about every other time he’s experienced Yennefer’s magic, this time it does not take existence in a roaring tempest, snarling at the very air it’s begot from. Rather, it washes over in a wave that, in some circumstances, could even perhaps be mistaken for ‘gentle’. He opens his eyes, braces himself, preparing for the worst, wondering when it’s going to hurt- Jaskier’s there. Or- well, he’s not, because the whole area’s still cloaked in sorcery. Plus, he can see a red doublet flitting between the trees further down the mountain.

“What the fuck,” is what Geralt intends to say, only he opens his mouth and snarls “ _Damn it, Jaskier._ ”

The past five minutes plays out in front of his eyes, his words getting angrier and angrier and Jaskier’s expressions falling. All the spells Vesemir drilled run through his head as his mouth moves apart from his mind and he rips into the bard some more. _Stop_ Geralt begs himself eventually, when his third attempt to look away from Jaskier’s face fails.

He can’t. He doesn’t. He didn’t.

“…See you around, Geralt.” He walks away and Geralt sags, gasping for breath and most of all _confused_ ; he recognises the curse at long last now. An old curse, almost forgotten, because people had quickly realised that making someone relive their worst memory over and over rendered them effectively useless in just about every other aspect of life and if the sorcerer kissed them only to find they _weren’t_ true loves after all, well… _Well._ What Geralt can’t understand though, is why _Jaskier_? Even though witchers don’t have feelings, he’s lived a long time and there’s all manner of instances involving physical pain the curse could have settled on.

“Damn it Jaskier!” he yells for what feels like the thirtieth time. “Why is it-“ _stop it_. He still doesn’t.

Once the memory is over, he forces himself to _look_ , to focus on something other than what his mind is showing him; he might have been on this mountain for years by now and it’s only because he’s still standing and even a witcher can’t go more than a few months on true starvation does he know it’s not been that long. Desolation starts in Jaskier’s heart and spreads across his face. Geralt screws his eyes shut and still sees him. It hurts now.

 _Stop it_ he orders himself. He can’t.

Squinting through the sun and the past, he lowers his gaze and seeks out the tell-tale flash of red silk. Below, moving unsubtlety through the forest, Jaskier’s not even partway down the mountain yet.

 _“_ See you around, Geralt.”

“Jaskier!” he doesn’t mean to shout and can’t tell if he actually is, forcing his feet from where they’ve frozen in ice water and hurries after the stupid bard and his stupid red doublet. Yennefer is making him relive the worst moment of his life, which is Jaskier, of all things, which makes complete sense, after all these things. It hurts the same as talons ripping his flesh.

Stopping his feet once he’s finally caught up to the bard is a struggle and it’s a struggle to breathe and a struggle not to groan with the pain and Geralt tries to let his mind go blank, tires not to think about any of it, tries to- to- to- _Phew, what a day. I imagine…_ A little further down the path- not actually on the track more a little ways off the side, the better as not to leave tracks and keep hidden, _damn it Jaskier!_ Jaskier turns to look at him, anguish written all over his face, cradling his lute as a child would a stuffed animal.

Geralt reels to a stop, the feeling in his chest is like he's taken too many potions at once and the sun is too bright. Magic crackles in purple fingers through the air- invisible to any eyes but those of a witcher- humming as Jaskier in his mind’s eye overlaps with Jaskier on the road in front of him. In both instances their expressions are the same. Until- until- he needs to _think-_ until the real, here and now Jaskier’s face hardens, freezing over akin to a pond icing over in winter, the way he couldn’t minutes ago when Geralt- _damn it Jaskier!_

“What do you want?” he asks coldly.

Geralt opens his mouth, which never goes well at all. _Damn it_ “Jaskier” he rasps out. The same sound as when boulders tumble down the face of a cliff. “You…” _it’s you, shovelling it!_ What the fuck is he meant to say? Fuck. “I-“words fail him. What is he meant to say?

“You’re going to have to do better than that.”

“I know- I- If…” _if life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands_ he’s said those words fifty times now if not more. “Jaskier,” Geralt begs, stepping closer, completely clueless as to what it is he’s meant to say.

In sync, Jaskier takes a step back. “Oh no- no- _no way_ , Geralt, there’s no fucking way I’m making this easy on you here- you hurt me! You bastard, what you said bloody hurt!”

Tears are dripping down his face and Geralt is scared he might drown. The memory starts again.

_Damn it Jaskier! Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you shovelling it?_

“I know- I- you aren’t- you aren’t shovelling it?”

“You’re damn right I’m not!” fury licks up in flames and the foolish part of him that life as a witcher has yet to kill hopes that this will be the thing intended to break the curse. It’s not. _Well, that’s not fair_. “I know that-“ the anger wobbles and cracks, leaving only his wet face and his lean, fragile body curling further and further round his lute- “I know I can be _too much_ at times, especially for a witcher, and I know I can get pretty annoying, but I always thought…” he chokes off, a horrible, wretched, wet, rasping sound and scrubs his tears away angrily, first one hand then the other.

At a loss, Geralt steps back, observing the sun that is dappling through the trees slide over the bard’s hair and turn it a soft gold; lets Nature touch him gently in all the ways he as a monster never can. _Damn it Jaskier!_ Yes, damn it. Damn all of this and him to hell Gods fucking damn it all. “Jaskier-“ throat seizing, he has to start again, plucking words out of thin air. “You- you weren’t _wrong_ , to think that. I- you- I can’t ask you not to go and you haven’t got any reason to stay. Stay anyway?”

 _See you around, Geralt_.

The reaction is not the one he hopes for (why continue hoping, then, you silly, stupid, foolish witcher?) “Why are you saying this?”

“Because- because…” The only answer that he receives is a helpless shrug, palms upturned and wide open. He has nothing to give. _Phew, what a day_.

All the tears are gone, now his eyes are red and raw. Acid burns and crow’s feet, a physical bruise of life on the Path, on Geralt’s Path, the path he’s put Jaskier through. _It’s always you shovelling it!_ Perhaps his weakness is visible, perhaps it is not. Either case: Jaskier snaps to it like a dog, “Why did you say all of- all of _that_?”

“Because I’m an idiot.” Now _that_ , at least, requires no thought.

“That’s not a good enough answer.”

“…No?”

“It’s really, really not.”

Geralt tears each word from his tongue piece meal, bit by bit, tasting blood and the devastation of it all and the pollen in the air. _Well, that’s not fair_. “Yennefer made me- feel- things. You- I didn’t feel until- until _you_ made me start to feel things and you- I couldn’t- it was…”

Jaskier let the sunlight back in, then the weather changed, as the course of Nature invariably and inevitably does, and the storm clouds rolled over and that was all Jaskier’s fault for letting him see the sunlight again in the first place. For letting Geralt pretend for a while that he could be a witcher _and_ a man, for letting him believe he could be a thing besides a monster. _If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands_. In the memory, agony blooms on his face like a flower opening in spring. He should have had more control- it’s what he was trained for, what Kaer Morhan bred into him; if Vesemir could see him now he would be appalled. _I’ll go get the rest of the story from the others_.

Anger, hurt, forgiveness, other emotions he’s incapable of putting a name to, all these war on Jaskier’s face except in his eyes. his eyes are icy blue as he looks him up and down.

Geralt realises, with a jolt, that if he wants to stop Jaskier from walking away now _see you around, Geralt_ he needs to fight for it.

After all his time as a witcher, surely fighting is the one thing he’s more than qualified for. Right?

_Damn it Jaskier!_

Fist clenching at his sides, he concentrates on the real bard in front of him with all of his strength, “Don’t- you won’t forgive me. I know that. Can I- I’ll go to the coast, if that’s where you want to go. Or- or anywhere you choose to go.” He trails off lamely. It is the truth and it is paltry and worthless in his hands. It can scarcely fill his mouth, let alone satisfy Jaskier. He would not blame the bard if _see you around, Geralt._ But Geralt really doesn’t want that to happen (again.)

Jaskier narrows his eyes; being pinned under his steel gaze is unsettling, jarring- the expression is out of place on a man who up until now has rarely been anything but soft edges and sunlight and songs. “What if I don’t want you to come to the coast with me- to come anywhere near me at all? Gods- why would I, after all this, huh?”

He shrugs again; strands of his hair dance at the dance of his vision- his white hair, stripped of its pigment to strip him of his humanity and he cannot blame any of this on Jaskier. _Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you shovelling it?_ “Do what pleases you.” _While you can_. Fuck. Fuck, fuck and more fuck. Because fuck.

“Oh for-“ he face-palms and breathes out, slow and even and too fast for Geralt’s decreased respiration, still. He waits, feels the world around him still as the magic is able to rush in and grasp a firmer hold. _Right, then, I’ll, I’ll go get the rest of the story from the others_. “Alright.” He tears himself back into reality. (The same way he’s forcing himself back into Jaskier’s life right now.)

He meets his eyes, “You’re not forgiven, though.”

He manages to breathe out at last, “But I am coming with you?”

“Yeah,” sighs Jaskier, turning away and starting down the path again. “We’re going to the coast.”

Geralt follows, keeping him in sight at all times. _See you around, Geralt_.


	2. The Path

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this turned into a song fic straight from 2002, enjoy the nostalgia my dudes  
> and yes, I did plan this chapter specifically for the aesthetic and angst of two pining idiots,

On the path, there are certain things which one can get used to. Geralt’s not one of them. Jaskier muses all of this sitting by the fire and strumming his lute, occasionally erupting and singing a line louder than necessary, waiting for the witcher across the fire to say something.

He doesn’t.

Jaskier feels another part of his anger fall away, crumbling until the fire licks it into nothing more than ashes. It’s not that he won’t forgive Geralt- eventually- and it’s not that he doesn’t think he’s sorry. Only he needs to learn to apologise and perhaps, if it’s not too much trouble, to appreciate his bard a bit more. Because what he said… he takes a deep breath and forces the memory away. What he said has left a scar. One that will heal, yes, but for now it’s still healing. It hurts, leave it at that.

The thing is, Jaskier likes to tell himself, his witcher cares and is not as indifferent as he wishes himself to be. Even after the incident with the djinn and the inadvertent consequences of his desire for peace and quiet, Geralt had never apologized. Not verbally. Jaskier thinks he deserves that, of all things. And if using his words is a struggle for Geralt, well, call it character building. Call it tough shit. All he wants is a spoken apology and not one that results from any of Jaskier’s input or begging, and that’ll be the end of the matter. He can go back to pining, trotting along in the wake of his witcher across the Continent and baiting him for more details. Not an ideal plan, but at least he can work on his tan at the coast, right?

***

On the first day, there is stony silence. Stony like the mountain.

Aw- fuck.”

***

Day two is… better. They cross from the band of great forest and the terrain starts to slope more into clement; _almost, almost_ coastal and the excitement builds in Jaskier’s hearts and starts to float his anger away. He feels hopeful and excited and delighted all at the same time, in a way he hasn’t since he was a child awaiting his birthday on the other side of midnight. His zeal bubbles over outside of himself and he can’t help himself.

“Do you think I could write a song about the coast?” he asks Geralt.

“Hmm.”

Jaskier doesn’t know what he expected, but it’s disappointing anyway. Sighing, he skirts under the branches of a weeping willow and wonders why he bothers.

Roach whinnies, the noise carrying softly over the mossy ground and he stops as she plods to a halt, flicking her tail. “Is there danger?” his first thought is for his lute, his second thought for Geralt, who’s going to have to fight the danger and has been _off_ for the past two days in a way that makes his skin crawl.

With not even a whisper of sound, Geralt climbs down from Roach’s back and stares (or glares) at the road ahead of them, one hand on his sword, testing the air.

“No.” However instead of making a move to get back on his horse, he takes hold of her reigns and starts to walk, slow enough Jaskier has no trouble keeping up.

When the silence carries on, Roach hums again and tosses her head. From the corner of his eye, he can see as Geralt hums in return and frowns, looking curious. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why would you make a song about the coast?”

Despite his previous good humours, Jaskier feels strangely reluctant to answer the question, this is- this is what Geralt _does_ , now, apparently, though if he tried to explain the phenomenon aloud he would doubtless sound mad. He is apologizing in his own way, by asking questions about his songs, giving him details when he asks, offering to let him ride on Roach, giving him his extra blanket, not complaining about his songs and it’s everything Jaskier’s been bewailing for years and he… _he hates it_. these pasts two nights he’s spent a long time thinking this over, with his back to Geralt as he tries to sleep; because Jaskier wants him to be doing these things because he actually cares, not as some sort of penance that isn’t what Jaskier wants at all.

All he wants is for Geralt to say he’s sorry, acknowledge he fucked up and then the two of them to go back to normal. Alright, so the more detailed explanations can stay, they made song writing a lot easier, the rest of it however can go.

Twenty two years is a long time to know a person- certainly this is the longest relationship Jaskier’s sustained with anyone in his entire life. A very long time to get to know a person. Besides the “pining, unrequited love” part, he had loved the fact that, under the tough, reticent outer layer, he could tell how much Geralt cared. That the grumbling and mutual insults were all marker stones of the witcher’s _care_. Jaskier just wants that certainty back, the surety they’re friends without having the articulate the deep emotional bond between them.

Even as he casts sideways looks, the memory of Geralt’s fury spitting out like sparks off a fire comes back in a deluge. With a sigh, he pushes it away with practised ease. He knows what happened, he was there, he doesn’t need to be reminded. “People prefer when a song could have been in their town, for some reason. Particularly in taverns- they get drunk and later on can tell travellers they had a monster in their town.”

Not even a ‘hmm’ in response.

Some time later, when the marshy grass under their feet’s given way to fallen red-vine leaves, he asks, “Have you been to the coast before?” Well, no, that’s a lie: this is Geralt and his actual words are, “You’ve been to the coast before,” but he means the same as any other person who asked the question, Jaskier knows. Twenty two years, right?

“Once.” He shuts his eyes, remembering, then stumbles over a tree root and would fall if not for Geralt’s vice-like grip round his arm. He resolves to keep his eyes open. “My father was trading with a merchant in a coastal town. Just this once he took us all, instead of sending a messenger- I think the merchant was some kind of distant relative. We stayed in his holdings. The sea was blue and the beach went on for miles; that was the first time we saw boats not on a river.

“His children were very friendly and always got us into trouble, but being in public my father was very lenient with us. The day before we left, he took us onto a boat, there was a feast when we got back. The fish tasted nothing like the fish at home.”

Geralt makes a little noise of acknowledgment, then carries on walking further ahead with Roach and lets Jaskier fall behind, seemingly no longer bothered about staying in-step. Jaskier stumbles along half-blinded by the taste of fish in his mouth. It was heavily salted, he recalls. It tastes like his tears did, the first night after the mountain, when he cried himself to sleep with Geralt’s words rushing through his head.

He can’t quite face himself back into the present the rest of the day, following after Geralt whilst the witcher never looks back.

***

On the third night, Jaskier decides for definite that there’s something _wrong_. Not being completely (or at all) obtuse, he’s of course noticed the shadows growing under Geralt’s eyes; bruising thumbprints as sleeplessness grips him tighter and tighter, the tension holding his shoulders in a straight line and a frown pulling his mouth down.

But, well, Jaskier’s prerogative has been _not_ to ask, given how he’s still smarting from what happened on the mountain. And he's afraid if he does the decent thing and ask, Geralt will remember why he thought that being alone again would be such a blessing.

Why _should_ he ask? Geralt was cruel and uncaring three days ago, he has every right to retaliate in kind.

He can’t. He can’t bring himself to do it. _Bloody witchers_.

And this is not because the last time he couldn’t sleep it led to the djinn and ultimately Yennefer; much as it pains Jaskier to admit, this is because he _cares_. Every little sign pointing to something being the matter. Erodes the anger that was already guttering out in his heart anyway.

He downs the last of his ale and picks up his lute, preparing for the encore the patrons of this small town’s small inn begged for minutes ago. “ _Toss a coin to your witcher, oh valley of plenty_ …” Before he left to deal with the drowner on the bank of the river Geralt had, in one of his increasing moments of sheepish chivalry, rather solicitously said there was no need for him to sing and play the crowd tonight, that even without taking this contract they would have enough money for the remaining four days to the coast. To which Jaskier had snorted and snapped that he sung ‘for the joy of it’ and words to the effect of ‘not everything is about _you_ , Geralt’.

“Hmm,” he answered, leaving.

Once he knows if Geralt’ll survive or not, then he’ll know if he regrets what he said or not. If he lives, Jaskier’s still pissed off. _“Friend of humanity…”_

He finishes the song, then the villagers beg for another encore and he obliges happily, the ale and joy working its way into his blood. Midway through, as the villagers all bang their mugs on the table and stomp their feet in time with the chorus, he watches a hulking broad shadow with strands of white hair escaping the hood of a cloak open the door and sneak up the stairs to the room they’ve brought for the night. Jaskier makes this his last song.

“How was the drown- oh fuck, Geralt!” he tosses his lute on the bed and rushes forward.

“’S fine,” he grunts in response, not even sparing him a glance as he pokes and prods a soiling dish cloth at the large gash over his ribs. When Jaskier drops to his knees in front of where he’s sitting on the edge of the bath, he has no choice except to make eye contact. Quickly, he glances away and tacks on, “It’ll heal soon.”

_That’s not the point_ which he bites back, because he’s been saying the same thing for twenty two years and _there’s really no point_. “Give me that!” he snatches the cloth, gazes in horror at how stained it is and immediately switches out for his handkerchief, dabbing carefully at the blood that’s already starting to congeal, the edges of the wound turning crusty and preparing to knit back together. “You said this was just a simple drowner. How did this happen?”

“Hmm.” The shrug is more like a rearrangement of his shoulders, allowing his hair to fall over his face and hide him away. A poor attempt to end the conversation and he feels a different sort of anger boiling up inside him.

“Geralt of Rivia, you tell me the truth right now.”

“Couldn’t just set it on fire,” his voice is pitched low, rumbling like approaching thunder. In any other circumstances, his voice would do _things_ to Jaskier. Now it is merely an admission of guilt and he snarls, prompting him to continue. “Was- needed to fight something, so I didn’t case _Igni_. And I… slipped.”

He frowns, confusion overriding ire as he tugs the bandages from their pack, “Why?”

“I’m…” gold eyes dart and skitter over the floor, his facial expression unreadable to anyone, even to Jaskier. He mouths a few words silently, though he can’t tell what. “Can’t sleep.”

“I noticed that.” But there are better ways to tire oneself out enough to sleep, whores included, even for one as stubborn and idiotic as Geralt of Rivia. So why… He knots the bandage and pulls it tight, steps back to allow Geralt to unbuckle the rest of his armour.

His movements are slow and tired. Jaskier doesn’t offer to help.

Abruptly, he stands and leaves, lets the door hang wide open, and doesn’t return until he’s procured two bowls of steaming hot rabbit stew. Bu this time, he’s fully dressed again, leaves pulled out of his hair and normal impassable look back on his face. “Jaskier“ he begins at the same time he says, “Geralt.” Geralt shuts up.

Jaskier sips at his stew and glares over the rim of his bowl, knuckles white where he grips his spoon, “I know when there’s something wrong, Geralt. What is it you’re not telling me?”

The silence lingers. It’s perhaps a quarter of an hour later before he mutters into the dregs of his stew: “I’ve been cursed.”

“Cursed?”

“Yes.”

He waits. Nothing else is forthcoming. “Well?” he prompts. A blank look and he nearly swears, “Details, Geralt, details! Who cast it? What does it do? How long does it last? Those sorts of things!”

He shrugs, completely too calm for this whole situation. Worry’s gnawing Jaskier’s insides to shreds and one or two times he nearly slides off the edge of his chair with anticipation. He can’t remain upset if Geralt’s going to die. He can’t do _anything_ if Geralt is going to die except worry and fight for him to live. “It’s an old curse, people don’t use it anymore. It won’t kill me, it just won’t stop. Makes you relive your worst moment over and over.”

“Oh. Oh- _holy shit_ that’s awful.” No wonder he can’t sleep- no wonder he wants to sleep. Even nightmares would be a relief from waking. “What does it make you remember- no, no, no actually, no, don’t tell me. If it’s _your_ worst memory I’ll bet it would give me nightmares, you don’t have to tell me.” Only because he’s looking Geralt square in the face does he see the strange, almost mournful look flit across his eyes before it’s shut up inside is barricaded heart again, quick as the flash of a blade.

Another shrug, “I’ll live.”

“Yes but _still_ \- I mean- is there anything I can do?”

“Can’t break the curse.”

Jaskier swears and leans over, rests his elbows on his knees and buries his head in his hands because _this man_ , “I hate you sometimes, you know that? I really, really hate you.”

No answer. He focuses on breathing and _not_ what his worst memory would be, _not_ on how this is clearly what’s made the witcher so apologetic and not actually remorse, _not_ how Geralt’s cursed- possibly forever- and ‘that’s that’, _not_ on the grief stirring in his chest and how he feels so, so sorry and how he’s already forgiven him now, none of that. Only breathing. In and out. The tide, the coast, tomorrow, tonight- one bed. Bollocks.

Warmth explodes up his wrist and he startles, limbs exploding outwards everywhere, but it is just Geralt taking his bowl and putting it on the table by the door with his own, ready to be returned to the inn-keeper in the morning. “I’ll tell you more details. Later. If you ask. If you wanted them… for a song.”

“What I- Gods and Melitele’s right tit, Geralt, _what the fuck_?” he demands, agape. Twenty two years and he still has no idea on occasion just what is going on in his head.

He stops, impassive, “We should sleep now.”

“Yeah, you do that,” agrees Jaskier faintly, head swimming. “I’m just, uh, going downstairs for a while. Be back up in a minute.”

“I could-“

“Gods, Geralt, I only want to go for a piss, I don’t need you to hold my hand!” he feels bad for yelling, but also it feels really good and also like he kind of deserves it, or at least now can appreciate how he made Jaskier feel to be on the receiving end of unbridled wrath three nights ago. He leaps out the chair like it’s burnt his arse and stalks out, “I’ll see you in a minute.”

Downstairs, the inn’s patrons are either gone or slumped over drunk at their tables, the innkeeper’s daughter looking up from wiping down tankards to give him a brief nod as he slips out into the cool night air.

He walks a little ways away; keeping his back to the wall so as not to get either lost or surprised and once he’s found a covered spot under the overhanging roof slumps to the ground and sighs for the umpteenth time this evening, tilting his head back and drinking in the sky. Tonight is so cloudy there’s no stars- it’s almost impossible to tell there are clouds up there, either, thick black clouds all crowded together until it gives the appearance that the sky is just one black abyss bearing down on the world. Should it really be an abyss, Jaskier has half a mind to throw himself into it. Because _why the fuck not._

He sighs and resolves that will definitely be the last one for today, then tastes the tears he didn’t realise he was shedding. _Why the fuck am I crying?_ He wonders, wiping them away with the sleeve of his doublet; his handkerchief is still in the room with Geralt.

Geralt.

Oh, that explains a _lot_.

At a loss as to what else to do, Jaskier lets himself carry on crying and doesn’t return to their room for a long time.

***

Six days later and Jaskier’s had enough. They’ve reached the coast, where an easy living can be made casting Igni at drowners, so says Geralt. They’ve let Roach paddle in the sea and nose along the beach to her heart’s content, and settled into a tiny cottage rented from an old widow after ridding another widow of a rat-like monster whose name he can’t pronounce. (The coast is chock full of widows for some reason.) Their cottage is in an easy walk’s distance of two villages and half a day’s ride of six more. And yet there’s been no mention from Geralt about searching for how to break the curse.

Now it’s not that he _cares_ , Jaskier is quick to remind himself before broaching the subject; only that he’s got to share a bed with the sleepless witcher, and… Okay. So he cares. “Geralt?”

Even his grunt in response is listless, that’s how tired he is. The other night, Jaskier had tried to persuade him to leave a contract for another day, because between the monsters so far and his performances at the taverns, they have more than enough coin. He’d refused and Jaskier had been just as sleepless that night, even after Geralt had come back. Sleepless with worry.

Yeah, he really, really cares.

“How long can a witcher survive without sleep?”

“Depends,” he hunches his shoulders further over his bowl at their kitchen table, looking washed out in the weak sun filtering through the window.

“On what?”

“How long the chase lasts.”

“Right- wait, what the fuck does that even mean?”

“Hmm.”

He sits on his hands to prevent himself flinging his bowl of porridge at his head (he’d duck and it’d be a waste of food.) Reminds himself what his other used to say about choosing his battles. “What I’m trying to say is,” he starts again icily, “I thought now we’re settled down here for a while, you’d start looking for a way to break the curse.”

The tell-tale sign is that the fingers of the hand curved round the rim of his bowl twitch, once, knuckles knocking together and the barest of pauses as he raises the spoon to his mouth. With a bird’s chirp in the trees outside, the world shifts and everything resumes normal speed. “No.”

“Why not?” if this is part of his overly-solicitous-actions-not-words-apology, then he can go and stuff it right-

“Only way to break it’s true love’s kiss,” he sneers, as if it’s physically painful to speak of a thing so closely related to emotions and feelings.

Oh. Oh. Jaskier’s mouth opens and closes as his heart shatters, “Well… where are you going to get that?”

Geralt doesn’t take any time to chew the question over; pushes his bowl away and reaches for the kettle hanging in the fire place, “Don’t know. Want some?” He proffers the kettle at Jaskier’s mug.

“Yes I do, but- hold on, hold on, what are you going to do then?”

A quizzical look.

“To find true love’s kiss,” he clarifies, refusing to think about how much this conversation sounds like he’s wheedling. “You can’t just…”

“Leave it, bard. I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” he leans forward to maintain eye contact even as Geralt leans back. “You’re really, really not. The bags under your eyes look like bruises.”

“I’ll sleep eventually,” he shrugs again.

He tries a different tack, “Perhaps we could buy you a sleeping potion.”

A frown. “You shouldn’t do that,” he chides as if he’s speaking to some small, errant child touching bugs.

“Why not?”

“I’m a witcher.”

“Oh for the love of-“ he pushes the rest of his bowl away. He has no appetite. The legs of his chair scrape and screak in protest against the flagstone floor as he stands up.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going,” replies Jaskier with as much dignity as he can muster, “To talk to Roach. Perhaps _she_ can provide some sensible conversation around here.”

***

“He’s just- arggh! There are times when I hate him so much I really am tempted to throttle him,” he complains to Roach, words slightly muffled from where he’s buried his face in her neck. She neighs softly and nibbles at his hair as an apology for having the most obtuse master in the Continent.

“I know, I _know_ that it isn’t his fault, I know that Roach, sweetling, I promise. But what he said hurt and… why should I be the one to- to- _argh_. You know what I mean, don’t you?”

She whinnies her assent, pausing in her chewing to bump her nose to his temple. She knows. The stable is really more of a lean to- a very nice lean to, as Geralt would never have let her stay in squalor- but a lean to. Wind whistles through the ajar door and Jaskier listens intently for footsteps. Nothing. Only the wind and the larks; Nature’s melody, winding up the day as the sun rusts the sky. He lets himself relax a bit more, breathing in the scent of horse deeply and stroking Roach’s mane.

“One of these days I’ll braid flowers in your hair,” he promises. “Sneak you a sugar cube- Geralt wouldn’t begrudge you one little sugar cube now, would he? After all you’ve done and been through, you deserve to be treated like a queen, darling.”

Roach agrees whole-heartedly, tongue rough over the nape of his neck. He holds her a bit tighter, “Don’t get me wrong, Roach, I _do_ want him to apologize. ‘S the least I deserve. But… And I mean, just look at me now! This is practically identical to what happened in the inn a few nights ago when he told me about the curse in the first place. He does this _all the time_ and even once he does apologize, he doesn’t love me back. He never will.”

With a snort, she tugs a strand of hair sharp enough to make him yelp, straw poking the back of his knees. The door creaks and a shadow falls over them both as Geralt appears.

“She pulled your hair,” he doesn’t-ask (in that way he does) with a smirk.

“She has good taste!” he defends. Roach’s head swivels back and forth between them both, then with a derisive sound she buries her nose in her feed. Jaskier has the distinct feeling she’s judging them.

“Hmm.” He approaches with nary a glance at _him_ , all attention on his horse as he strokes her nose tenderly. The traitorous part of his heart wishes the rest of the world could see Geralt like this. The same part wants to keep him all to himself. _True love’s kiss_.

Heart sinking, he turns his thoughts to happier sights. “I’m playing at the tavern tonight,” he reminds the other needlessly. “Are you coming to watch?”

He’s slow to answer, the frown that’s ever-present on his brow nowadays deepening. _He’s seeing it now_. For some reason, it’s not actually really sunk in before, but not he realises just how all-encompassing ‘reliving your worst memory’ must be. Every single ounce of attention he wrests away from _it_ to focus on the business of day to day living comes at a cost which is evident in the exhausted slump of his shoulders, the half moons dark as boulders under his gold eyes.

Perhaps this is why Jaskier presses. “I think you should. It might distract you for a while.”

A beat. Then, “Alright.”

The grin blooms on his face so fast his cheeks hurt, “Really?”

“Hmm.” _Yes_.

“I’ll go and get my lute!”

“You’re not due at the tavern for another hour,” Geralt calls after him but he doesn’t hear, already running back to the cottage.

***

Every time he stands up and plays for a crowd, Jaskier’s reminded in a tidal wave of why he chose the life of a bard. He loves it- the music, the singing, the movement, the crowd, their faces; from the excited young labourers to the recognition of a favourite song on the faces of wizened old crones. Their coin is nice, too, but mainly it’s for the crowd and the atmosphere. Geralt is part of tonight’s crowd, in his customary seat in the corner. The villagers here have all embraced the idea of a witcher in their midst, occasionally one patron or another craning round in their seat to shout a joke or jeer about the ale or the food or the song. Geralt never responds with nearly as much enthusiasm, yet that doesn’t seem to dim anyone’s good mood.

Jaskier’s very glad he decided on the coast.

He doesn’t sing _Toss a Coin_ , no point in wearing out a favourite, and these people hardly need encouragement to embrace his witcher. Instead he sticks to the words of other writers- ballads and bawdy songs, mainly, because it gets the drunken crowd cheering and loose with their purse strings and singing _together_ because they all know the words.

Getting Geralt to join in and sing along would be too much of an ask, Jaskier knows, but he keeps looking over to his badly-lit corner, taking note of the tension radiating off him and how much he looks like he doesn’t want to be here. On a brief break, he hops up onto the bar and tempts his friend over with a new pint of ale, “There you go, is that any better?” At his confused look, he adds: “You’ve been nursing that pint over there all night without so much as a sip.”

Geralt sniffs and sips the drunk the same way he sets a trap for rabbits, “Good.”

Without thinking, he takes the tankard from him and tries it himself, nodding in agreement and handing it back whilst ordering one for himself. Their hands brush, if only for the barest of seconds and he loses his eyes briefly and busies himself with his own drink.

“How d’you like the night so far?” he poses the question very aware of how Geralt’s shoulder is pressed up against his thigh. _Fuck_. (Yeah, that’s kind of the idea.)

“Well enough.”

“Is it helping with…?”

“Well enough.”

_Why do I bother?_ he thinks and rolls his eyes. “Maybe one day you’ll admit I am right sometimes and bestow me with your thanks.”

He shifts besides him, making to go back to his little table by himself, “Sometimes.”

He quickly hides his grin in his mug, “’Sometimes’?”

“If your head gets any bigger you won’t fit through the door.”

He laughs, lets him retreat; between the good mood and the alcohol lets a group of women at a table near the bar press him into a love song. Oh boy has he got a few of those up his sleeve. Jaskier bows to the group, who giggle, then picks up his lute and starts, “Now, my dear listeners, this is a new one I’ve recently composed. You’ll have to forgive me if it’s not very good. I’m still- ah, working out the kinks,” he delivers the last line to the barmaid with another bow and an added wink, washing away her appreciative giggles with the strumming of his fingers, adding an extra chord to give him time to check that Geralt is listening before he begins.

He is.

_“The fairer sex, they often call it, but her love's as unfair as a crook…”_

Geralt keeps looking over at him and it’s a struggle not to maintain eye contact with him and only him throughout the whole song.

_“…It steals all my reason, commits every treason…”_

He’s beautiful, even tired and cursed with mud on his trousers and a glower on his face. The next time Jaskier looks across, the bad-tempered expression has fallen away and he’s looking at him in a way that Jaskier, for the life of him, can’t decipher.

_“…She's always bad news, it's always lose, lose…”_

He tries to keep the longing off his own face, though it’s impossible to keep out of his voice. At the very least this will make a good performance, one for the ages. At no point does this new, unreadable expression disappear- Geralt’s bad moods lift like a thunder cloud, which he knows from experience and it just _hurts_ , compared to how he always thought he could read the man so well. But Jaskier’s been fooling himself for twenty two years and here’s the proof.

_“…But the story is this, she'll destroy with her sweet kiss…”_

He meets Geralt’s eyes.

_“…I'm weak my love, and I am wanting…”_

Geralt looks away first.

***

The walk back to the cottage is subdued; Jaskier’s rambling keeps tapering off or petering out as the night grows heavier and the cottage gets closer. He can’t avoid thinking about how tonight will play out like every other night: immediately on their return Geralt will go and check on Roach, Jaskier will linger hopefully in the sitting room for a few minutes, then realise how pathetic he's being and slink upstairs and hurry to get into bed before Geralt comes up, sparing them any conversation. He’ll pretend to be asleep when Geralt slides into bed (indeed, that is, if he actually bothers coming to bed) and at the first creak of the mattress let out a little groan and use it as an excuse to roll onto his other side as far apart as two men their size can reasonably and safely get. Neither of them will be asleep and neither of them will say a word. The only sound will be their breathing, each breath another brick adding to the wall building up between them.

Forgive him if he doesn’t want to go home to that again.

Under the moonlight’s direction, they round the blacksmith’s dwellings- sleeping in the shadows and waiting to roar to life again with day break- and make for the dirt path that leads back to the little rented cottage.

Geralt stops, eyes alert and testing the air. Jaskier freezes, waiting for a knife at his throat or a beast to lunge from nowhere. A beat. Two. Three. Nothing happens except a goat ‘baa-ing’ in the distance. He opens his mouth, about to ask, when-

“Geralt.” Yennefer greets, emerging from the darkness as if begot from shadows. “bard,” she adds.

It’s not so much her tone as the look on Geralt’s face that spurs Jaskier into action. “Witch,” he greets coolly. _Cool as ice, Jaskier, that’s it_. But ice can shatter and he needs to leave before either of these two people can see it happen. He turns in the witcher’s general direction though doesn’t give him the courtesy of looking up and doesn’t dare to meet his eyes- if he’s not smelt the emotions rolling off of him then it’s only a matter of time. “I’ll see you back at the cottage.”

Which is _not_ foolish hope- Geralt will come back for Roach, at least. He might leave his bard, but he won’t leave his horse. Jaskier strides away, fighting every instinct to run and every desire to cry. Looks like Geralt had come to the coast to break the curse, after all.


	3. The Coast

_Ah shit_ Geralt thinks immediately. Which in the circumstances, he thinks is fair. Fuming heat licks up his arm as Jaskier pushes past him- he really should say something, acknowledge the bard in some way, but by the time the thought occurs to him he’s already gone.

_If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!_

He drags his attention back to the matter at hand, Jaskier’s heartbroken expression disappearing as he turns and starts to head back down the mountain. (Back to the cottage.) “You need to kiss me.”

The look on Yennefer’s face is similar yet not. She shakes her head, long hair still shining even in the absence of the sun. “It won’t break the curse.”

He pauses. Swallows. _The Child Surprise, the Djinn, all of it!_ “What?”

“For fuck’s sake!” the outburst startles his tired brain and knocks him off guard enough that she is able to seize him by the shoulders and pull him bodily down to her height to kiss him full on the mouth.

It ends.

 _See you around then, Geralt_.

He inhales a ragged breath, wondering why his eyes are stinging, “W- what?”

_Damn it Jaskier!_

Yennefer’s eyes are a chasm he fears to drown in. “We’re not-“ she stops, starts again, “We’re not true loves.” Geralt thinks perhaps she wants him to say something, only he can’t think exactly what. _Fuck. Vesemir never prepared me for this_. “If I’d thought about it, I’d never have cursed you,” she swears.

He believes her. That’s not the problem here. _Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you shovelling it?_ Slowly, everything she just said whirs and catches up to him. The relief he’d felt when she appeared and kissed him makes a belated arrival, swept just as quickly away by horror; the horror is still mounting. Mounting. Mountain. Fuck. _Damn it Jaskier!_ Fuck. Shadows flit across Yennefer’s face, confusion which he recognises though is foreign to them both then a slew of others he cannot understand.

“How could you…” each word is dragged heavy from his tongue, his mouth feels thick like a hangover. “How could you do that to me? Why?” _Well, that’s not fair_.

Shame writhes over her face- in appearance it is very similar to her grief and there’s a part of Geralt’s brain which is stirring from a long dark hibernation, speaking in a foreign tongue. “I was so _angry_. You fucking made me-“

“I made you curse me?”

“Let me finish! Feel things. You made me feel all sorts of things, I wanted it to hurt.” She laughs, the sound tinkling on the stars above them, “You made me feel things. I don’t know why I cursed you, really- hoping my kiss would break the spell when I was angry at the idea of being your true love in the first place? _Really_ wouldn’t work. At least it proves I was right though, I suppose.”

 _Phew, what a day!_ What had he said to Jaskier? ( _If life could give me one blessing it would be to take you off my hands)_ _I didn't feel until_ you _made me start to feel things_.

At his silence, Yennefer takes a step closer, “If I had ever stopped to... I would never have done it. I’d take it all back if I could, Geralt, I swear.”

 _See you around then, Geralt_. “Could you? Go back, I mean.”

“Yes. No- I-“ a knife twists in his ribcage as she shrugs, the fur of her jacket mixing with her hair. “Probably,” she finally decides. “But I don’t think that would prove I’m sorry.”

 _Phew what a day_. His mouth tastes of dead things and his eyes are so weary that everything keeps blurring. There is exhaustion and there is _this_ , this wretched half-life, every breath and blink accompanied by… _Damn it Jaskier_.

It _hurts_. Yennefer didn’t put the knife in his ribs, Geralt’s realising now as she stands in front of him practically waiting on his answer; the knife has been there a long time and who is he to criticise her for pushing the blade deeper when his hand is always resting on the hilt? _It’s always you shovelling it_. He’s seized by the need to speak, to say anything, because the longer this silence continues- _Well, that’s not fair_ \- the less likely it is that he’ll have the will to break it.

“Apologizing is…” he cannot connect any of the words to what he knows of them. Hard, difficult, painful, easy, good. All the words are just words, with none of the meaning Jaskier can always embellish them with when he weaves them into song. “People don’t… you have to show them you won’t make bad choices again, then, then you avoid situations so you don’t have to make bad choices and no one knows if you’re really sorry or not.”

That… didn’t make any sense. _The Child Surprise, the Djinn, all of it!_ Perhaps that’s fitting, or at least punishment after all his years communicating in grunts to anyone who isn’t Roach. Except he’s been talking to Jaskier, hasn’t he? _Damn it, Jaskier!_ He’s been talking to Jaskier all this time. _What’s the matter, Geralt? Talk to me._

Internally, Geralt flees the revelation, so delicately balanced he’s sure to upset it. He keeps it to himself and doesn’t speak of it to Yennefer; this seems like the kind of thing he ought to tell Jaskier first and foremost. _What now, then?_ he ponders. _See you around, Geralt_. The look of pain, the devastation. Twenty two years of trust shatters quietly, without a sound. _Phew, what a day!_ Trust shattering like the knife in his ribs plunged deeper when Yennefer asked how he could know their love was real on the Mountain.

“Geralt?”

Oh, she’s still here.

Absently, he feels himself growl. Although she doesn’t flinch, shutters close over her eyes. But she doesn’t flinch. _Damn it, Jaskier! Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days.._. Another growl. “What now?” She’s the one who did this, she’s the one who can work out the answer to that question. Now it’s _her_ turn to think and his to wait on the answer. Geralt focuses on breathing past the hot coals in his chest, forces himself to pay attention to every movement in the night, listening out for any hint that Jaskier hasn’t made it back to the cottage safely.

 _Right, then, I’ll... I’ll go and get the rest of the story from the others_.

In a better state, he could listen closely enough to pick out Jaskier’s heartbeat. Now- _see you around, Geralt_ \- he cannot.

“Do you have any idea whose kiss would break the spell?”

“No.” The idea of kissing anyone right now drives the knife deeper. So deep he almost gasps in pain, surely the knife must be grazing his heart by now. Jaskier’s chest stutters under his red doublet as he inhales in sharp little gasps, as if Geralt’s anger has thrown him onto his back and knocked all the breath out of him.

The sky darkens impossibly more. Thunder clouds- his answer displeases her. “There must be someone-“

“I thought it was you,” he shrugs, “It’s not.” He can live like this.

_If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!_

He can. Really he can.

“No one?” Yennefer of Vengerberg begs him. (It’s not right, her begging.) “There must be someone you feel for.”

“Witchers don’t feel.” (Only pain).

“Oh, so what was all of that on the mountain, hmm? I, the _fair lady_ , can feel, but the strong, manly witcher doesn’t?”

Alright, maybe tired. He can feel tired. And exasperated. With Jaskier, mainly. _Damn it Jaskier!_ “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

Her expression transforms into a different type of thunder cloud, no longer directed at him. He wishes he could sit down. How long have they been stood here talking? Long enough for the bard to reach the cottage? Long enough for the last lantern to be extinguished in the village?

When he tries to see he squints until the stars merge into tears at the corners of his eyes.

“If there’s someone, I’ll portal you there right now.”

“There’s no one.” The scent of wild rye grass clings to his senses; he’d been able to smell it on Jaskier’s breeches for days after the mountain until they’d spent the night in an inn. Geralt remembers this because he’s not allowed to forget. _Phew, what a day_. He laughs. The sound startles her. She hides it well. “It would have been kinder to kill me.” _See you around, Geralt_.

Sorrow colours her next words, “I was in no mood to be kind.”

“You were hurt.”

She bows her head, “Yes.”

 _I didn't feel until_ you _made me start to feel things_ he had told Jaskier, after- _after_. ( _If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands_.) _I hurt you because you made me feel things_. Oh. _Oh_. Fuck. He wants to touch her, isn’t surprised when his body stays still and she takes a step back after reading the thought in his eyes. “What are you going to do now?”

Her face falls. For good this time. “I’m going to carry on searching for a way to break the curse, what else? I’ve been chasing you and the bard for the eight days. I’ve got to keep searching.”

“Don’t-“ he doesn’t know what the fuck he wants to say. _Damn it Jaskier_. “Don’t kill yourself over it.”

“Geralt,” to his horror, tears start to gather in her eyes. “Geralt I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t- don’t- don’t-“ he manages to put a hand on her arm, though it feels like he's reaching across a gaping canyon, about to fall off the edge. “It’s alright. Don’t cry. It’s alright.”

A hand darts out of her sleeve and dashes the tears away; he’s close enough to see the little droplets fall and catch on the fur of her collar. There’s this heavy downward turn to her mout , the same as there is on Jaskier’s face, the same one Geralt always puts on people. “I make stupid, impulsive decisions at times.”

“Sometimes, yes. Me too.” _Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s always you shovelling it?_ He breathes in and burns his lungs with the cold air. “It’s alright. It’s… I want to go back to the cottage now and you want to go… somewhere. Everything’s alright now. I’ll live.” _I’ll go get the rest of the story from the others_.

Yennefer swears, long and hard. The air turns blue with sparks.

One last try, an offer, a gentle, kind offer that he cannot hold in his hands, “Do you want a sleeping potion, at least?”

“No.” _Yes_. No fucking way does he deserve one, though. _Phew, what a day_.

And that’s final. Carefully but not slowly, Yennefer moves away from his touch and takes several steps back down the path, hands coming together with the start of a portal dancing on her fingertips.

Geralt skids away, lost without an anchor, starting to turn away, feeling awkward. As awkward as when Vesemir taught them all about sex. _What would Jaskier do? See you around, Geralt_.

Jaskier.

He realises what he hasn’t actually said, what he _wants_ to give. “Yenn,” he begins, turning back. She looks up, washed in magic, as beautiful as she always wanted to be as a child. “I’m not angry, and we’re still friends.”

Instantly she goes still. Even her magic does, flames freezing in place, “You forgive me?”

“Do you forgive me, for binding us together?” He shouldn’t have done that, even accidentally, even for a good cause.

“Yes.”

He shrugs, “Same answer.”

Yennefer of Vengerberg smiles, her happiness spilling all around her and the magic turning a soft yellow. The warmth reaches him even several feet away and he leans into it, feeling slightly less exhausted. Without a word she steps into the portal- a spectacular exit. Yet the warmth doesn’t immediately vanish, it lingers as he makes his way down the long path towards the cottage. Towards Jaskier.

_If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!_

He realises what he hasn’t _actually_ said. What he should have said nine days ago.

 _See you around, Geralt_.

“Fuck.” Geralt hisses through his teeth. _Phew what a day_. Fuck.

***

Without scarcely a pause or beat of hesitation, Jaskier slams the front door shut behind him, heads for the bedroom and begins to pack. There’s an urgency thrumming through him of the likes that he hasn’t felt in a long time and he needs to _move_ , needs to move and go and get away and he doesn’t want to. His hands don’t stop. He carries on packing. Maybe he can even be gone before Geralt gets back; perhaps the kiss with Yennefer to break the spell will spiral into more and Jaskier can take his broken heart into the night alone and never have to see him again. He’ll miss Roach- he needs to make sure he says goodbye to her before he leaves, but he never wants to see her master again.

He really doesn’t want to go. He knows he deserves better, but he wants to stay. It’s _Geralt_. Jaskier wants to stay.

He doesn’t stop packing.

***

Death is heavy in the air as he breaks through the ring of bushes surrounding the cottage. Immediately Geralt opens the door to the stable. Roach’s ears perk up and she adds to the morbid atmosphere and the high-pitched whine in his ears with a long keening sound, the whites of her eyes stark in the shadows. He approaches and the door slams shut behind him and Roach neighs and rears up in her stall; without thinking he steps back as her front legs kick and she stomps, tossing her mane. It’s not that he will be harmed if she _does_ kick him, or that he would begrudge her any injury she might inflict, but this is strange behaviour even for her. “Shh, Roach.”

She snorts and knocks her muzzle against the wall that connects to the cottage. Geralt hesitates all the same. _Damn it Jaskier_. “You’re not hurt, are you, Roach?”

If looks could kill he would be dead long ago and pushing up daisies.

Geralt shuts the stable door and makes the front door in five long strides. _See you around then, Geralt_.

***

The place is a wreck, Jaskier at the epicentre, a pile of his possessions growing smaller as he crams them into his saddlebag. “Jaskier.” His bard starts and whips round, “Jaskier, what the fuck?” _Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days.._.

Abruptly his face hardens and his hands start to move again.

He steps forward, “You’re not... leaving?” It doesn’t sound like a question. He can see Jaskier physically reigning himself in, biting his tongue and clenching his jaw, “Go back to wherever Yennefer is, Geralt. I’ll be out of your hair soon.”

“But you- you can’t leave- I need to tell you...”

Hope adds to the nauseating mix of emotions in the air. “Tell me what?”

Geralt opens his mouth, closes it again, trying to force a rock up a hill as he makes his tired mind _think_ , “No.”

He swallows something down ( _Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you shovelling it?_ ), eyes misting over, fog in the air of a forest. “What do you mean?”

“Because...” the words fall over before they can leave his mouth, “Because I'm not saying it to make you stay.”

Jaskier snarls, “Why the fuck would you say anything, then?”

“Because- because- you _can’t_ leave,” his fingers twitch madly at this sides, trying to cling to a wish already slipping through his fingers. Perhaps this is punishment. Punishment for what?

_If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!_

Punishment for everything. Punishment for him.

Instead of replying, the bard just glares, turning round and beginning to buckle his bag closed, hands trembling. The shaky movement make Geralt close his eyes briefly as he tries to stop to room from swaying. Fuck. _Phew what a day! I imagine.._. “You can’t go because- because- you can’t go yet. Because I never told you I’m sorry, for what I said on the mountain,” ( _it’s always you, shovelling it_ ) Jaskier sits down on the bed and his glare does not falter. “And for- for- for upsetting you and always being rude and for the djinn and punching you when we first met and saying your singing is bad and for getting blood on your doublet.”

Jaskier’s mouth drops open. _Right then, I’ll... I’ll go get the rest of the story from the others_. Geralt can’t stop. It’s like a wound. It has to bleed. “You can’t leave, I know you like performing and pie and which tea you like and it will all be pointless if you- if we’re not friends anymore.”

“Oh, we’re friends, are we?”

“Yes!” Geralt yells, striding forward.

_He’s going to kiss me_ Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat in his disappointment, his joy, when he’s seized into the fiercest hug of his life.

 _He’s going to kill me_ Geralt thinks until, eventually, two ‘ _damn it Jaskier’_ s later, Jaskier’s arms come up to return the embrace.

Geralt breathes out, swaying forward slightly and relaxing. He breathes in and sniffs the air. _The Child Surprise, the djinn, all of it!_ “What’s wrong?” Is this... is he not enough?

“I still...” Jaskier pulls away. It feels cold. Bereft. Left at a roadside or lost a limb, that sort of loss. “I still can’t stay.” He won’t look at him, hands straying to his bag, twitching to fasten his cloak tighter and pull on the hem of his stupid, stupid red doublet. The cloak was once Geralt’s, given over years ago. _See you around, Geralt_.

“But... why?” _Damn it, Jaskier_. Well alright, no shit _why_ but... _why?_

“Why? Oh, Gods, Geralt,” tears start pouring down Jaskier’s face. “Gods, Geralt, you _have_ to know. Twenty two years- I’m in love with you, you have to know that I'm in love with you,” he sobs, ashamed. “I'm in love with you!” he yells, fury mixing with the tears and his mouth awash with salt. Geralt steps closer and won’t let him get away, so he pounds ineffectively at his broad, muscled chest, sobbing harder as he remembers all the nights he’s fantasised about touching his witcher only for that event to be now and this. ”I'm in love with you.”

Geralt gasps, faintly, “ _That’s_ what this is?”

He can’t breathe and he’s going to die. “What?”

“Everything you’ve just said is- is- is _here_ ,” he points to his chest, finger right above his heart. “I- I- _that’s_ what this means?”

“You- you- Yennefer?” This can’t be real. Geralt can’t feel anything for him and Jaskier certainly has not just ruined his chances if this is real by mentioning the woman.

“I want...” never has he seen his witcher look so lost. A lost little lamb, though he’s the only person in the world perhaps to see the softness under the black armour. And of all things, Geralt gestures vaguely with his hands, “I- I want- you- of course that’s what this is. I didn't know because it’s been there so long and you always smelt- I figured that was just how it felt, feeling and having- having a friend. But it isn’t like this with Yen and you- I want to travel with you or if you stay in one town forever I’ll have every day be the same with you.”

Geralt’s running his mouth and he is speechless and that’s how Jaskier knows this is all real. He steps closer, letting Geralt put his arms round him and he lets him stand as close as he likes. In the low lantern light, his golden eyes are sparkling. “You want that, with me?” An ugly beast roars in his chest. It’s his heart. “But the curse-“

“It’s you.” _It’s always you shovelling it_. “Of course it’s you.”

“What-?”

“On the mountain,” he explains, distracted as his eyes roam all over like this is the first time he’s seen Jaskier ever. “What I said to you and you’re face when I said it. That’s the curse.”

He’s never been more confused in his _life_ , “It’s me?”

“It’s you.”

“Can you still see me?” demands Jaskier, stopping just short of actually touching him.

 _See you around, Geralt_. “I see both of you. Please don’t leave.”

“Never,” Jaskier breaths, words and hot air hitting Geralt’s lips. “Never, if you want me.”

One of them moves- just breathing out brings them infinitely closer and the second their lips touch, they both kiss like they are drowning and it goes on for a long time. Geralt’s head is filled with the scent of Jaskier. Their hearts are beating together, Jaskier’s soft and fast between the slow beats of his own. It all fits. He doesn’t dare close his burning eyes, determined he will not lose a second looking at the other’s face. Perhaps he will not look so beautiful in the morning, after his first decent night’s sleep in weeks, but he doubts that will be the case. And gently, like a breeze blowing Yennefer’s hair out of her face, the magic breaks.

A while later, the kiss breaks. Jaskier tilts his head back to look at him, the entire sea is in his eyes. Without meaning to, Geralt leans closer in answer and murmurs against his lips, voice low and rolling like thunder as a storm comes in, “It’s still like magic. Looking at you.”

Jaskier starts to smile, “It worked? The curse is-“

“Broken,” he promises, marvelling when he is allowed to put an arm round his waist and draw him up to his face.

Jaskier smiles sweetly, “Good. I’m so glad. Maybe you can sleep tonight.” Shyly, he adds, “Kiss me again?”

He does.


End file.
